I love that he sees me that way and not as the girl from that trashy Bourne family like I’ve been all my life. Caleb thinks I’m elegant, a lady. And I want to be that for him. So I’ve learned to tame my fiery temper when things don’t go the way I want.
But, of course, someone like Monroe won’t understand that. He’s probably never edited a word in his life.
He smirks and shakes his head. “Right. God forbid you make him think bad things. You didn’t seem to have any problem giving me an earful when we met.”
“You’re not him.”
“No doubt about that. You two must have a very . . . nice relationship.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He rolls his neck, looking tired all of a sudden, and turns his back to me. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. It’s been a long day and I’m just talking shit. Give me a minute, and I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
He heads toward the office that sits off the main waiting area and starts unbuttoning his coveralls, peeling them down as he goes and revealing the cleaner clothes beneath.
I follow him, phone still clutched in my hand. “No, go ahead and tell me what you’re thinking. It’s not like you’ve held back yet.”
He kicks his boots off and steps out of the coveralls. “You just didn’t strike me as the type to be so worried about making waves or telling it like it is. You damn near bit my head off when you met me, and you don’t even know me. I guess I’m surprised you’d let the boyfriend get away with ditching you so easily.”
“He didn’t—” But before I can finish, my phone dings.
I glance down at the new email. It’s from the restaurant. Damn, I probably should’ve called and canceled. Can they charge you for not showing up? I slide my thumb over the message.
Good news! Your request to move your reservation from 8:00 to 8:15 has been approved. Thank you for using TableOne to make your reservations.
I stare down at the message, reading it again.
“Something wrong?” Monroe asks as he leans over to a small locker and pulls out a pair of beat-up black Chucks to replace his boots.
“I’m not—” I shake my head. “Looks like there’s some glitch with the dinner reservation I had tonight. I probably should call and cancel.”
He shrugs. “Whatever. Mind doing it outside? I’m going to lock up and set the alarm.”
I nod numbly. “Yeah, sure.”
He pulls on his shoes, and I head outside, dialing the number for the restaurant when I reach the parking lot. I listen to it ring and ring as I watch Monroe through the window. He’s flipping off lights and checking doors. Finally, someone on the other end of the line answers.
“Thank you for calling Madrid, how may I help you?”
“Hi, there was a reservation for two tonight at eight under the name Caleb Dewhurst and—”
“Yes, ma’am, we moved it to eight fifteen, per request, and even got you a table on the roof terrace.”
“But I didn’t make the request—”
“Oh, well, Mr. Dewhurst called a few minutes ago and adjusted it. So you’re all set.”
“I— Wait, he called recently?”
“Uh.” The woman sounds a little flustered now, like she knows she’s given something away. “Yes, a few minutes ago.”
My skin goes cold, and in my peripheral vision, I see Monroe stepping into the parking lot and locking the outside door.
“Did you need anything else, ma’am?”
I shake myself out of the frozen state I’ve entered. “No, that’s all right.”
I press End and my hand lowers to my side.
Monroe closes the distance between us. “Everything okay?”
My heart is beating fast, and I’m chilled despite the humid evening. Surely, it must be some mix-up at the restaurant. But I find myself saying, “Could you drive through downtown before bringing me home?”
His tilts his head. “Yeah, sure. How come?”
I take a deep breath and drop my phone into my purse. “Because he kept the goddamned reservation, and suddenly, I’m not feeling very nice at all.”
Monroe shakes his head, his mouth in a grim line. I expect him to say I told you so, but thankfully he refrains. Probably a good thing because I kind of feel like punching something right now. And if he’d said that, it might’ve been him.
“Come on.” He motions for me to follow him to the back of the building, and I stalk after him, girl on a mission.
But my bravado and brilliant plan only last about thirty seconds. Because what greets me in the back parking lot is absolutely not an option. “Oh, hell no.”
Monroe swings his leg over the seat of a motorcycle with handlebars that look way too high to be comfortable, and tosses me a helmet. “Sorry, princess, this is the only ride I’ve got. Lyle took the truck home.”
“I’m in a dress.”
“Just tuck the fabric underneath your legs to hold it down. You’ll be up against me, so it’s not like anyone’s going to see anything.”
Up against him. God. “I’m not riding on a motorcycle.”
He shrugs. “There’s a bus stop at the corner that will bring you downtown. Though, this isn’t the best neighborhood at night, so I wouldn’t recommend it. And hey, if you’re really on a mission for revenge, riding up on the back of one of these with your legs wrapped around some other dude could be kind of badass.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. I can feel my face flushing. Wrapping my legs around him is so not a good idea. I scramble for an excuse. “You know how dangerous these things are?”
He laughs. “Thanks, Mom. Duly noted. I promise to go the speed limit and observe all traffic laws.” He raises his hand in the Scout’s Honor mode, three fingers in the air. “But have you ever heard that saying about beggars not being choosers. You want a ride or not?”
“Goddamn it.” I shove the ridiculous helmet on my head.
His smile screams victory. “Oh, and if you need me to make out with you or anything for show when we drive up, I can find it in my giving nature to make that sacrifice for you.”
I give him a droll look. “Your generosity knows no bounds.”
He nods solemnly. “I’m a giver, birthday girl.”
“Just get me over to Willows Avenue without killing me.”
He pats the seat behind him. “Hop on, princess. You’re safe with me.”
What a lie that is. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt less safe around someone. I look down at my dress and then the bike, trying to figure out logistics. “Turn your head.”
“Of course,” he says with a smug smile.
He turns to face forward, but when I adjust my dress and swing my leg over the bike, I see a flash of red and realize I’ve probably given him an R-rated show in the rearview mirror. Fantastic. What a day to choose to wear lacy lingerie. But if he saw anything, he gives no indication.
I situate myself on the seat, tucking my loose skirt beneath my thighs, then look for a place to hold on. But, of course, there’s nothing to grab onto except him. Feeling more than a little awkward, I place my hands on his hips.
“Come on, you’re going to have to hold on better than that.” He takes my hands and guides my arms around his abdomen. His very hard, very flat abdomen. My body is automatically drawn forward to accommodate the hold, and my chest presses up against his back. God help me.
Warmth bleeds from him and through the very thin fabric of my dress and bra. And I’m intensely aware of every single place where my body is touching his. He smells faintly of grease, like the WD-40 I used on my bike as a kid, but somehow it smells good on him instead of acrid like it did back then. I kind of want to press my nose to his neck.
He turns on the bike, the beast of a thing rumbling to life beneath us, and heat that has nothing to do with the weather is quickly chasing away the internal chill that the phone call caused. My thighs are pressed along the edge of his, and there isn’t much of anything between the vibration of the bike and the awareness building between my legs. A faint oh escapes me.